CHAPTER EIGHTThe sun shone in a China blue sky as Jamila and I drove to Salisbury the next morning. A salty breeze blew through the car. Seagulls wheeled and squawked in airborne choreography as we left the ocean, crossed the Route 50 Bridge and motored inland.
Mulrooney’s office was near the courthouse, but our first stop was a coffee shop down the street. Mulrooney was there, chatting up the cashier.
“Mornin’, ladies,” he said, with a nod and a smile.
“Hey,” I said.
As I scanned the pastry selections, Mulrooney nudged me and said, “I’m a cheese Danish man, myself.”
I smiled, nodded. Why not? I ordered one with a large cup of dark roast coffee to go.
After we paid, Mulrooney led us on foot to his office. People smiled and waved at him, and he beamed and returned the greeting. Where
